


your salt and sweetness

by subjunctive



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: F/F, POV Sansa, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:07:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,378
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9404918
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/subjunctive/pseuds/subjunctive
Summary: When spring comes, Sansa and Daenerys meet for a peace summit, but Sansa's heart wants other things as well.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [octopus_fool](https://archiveofourown.org/users/octopus_fool/gifts).



Though her face remains calm and still, Sansa’s heart flutters when she spots the dark speck approaching on the horizon. It can only be Drogon.

“Seven hells,” mutters one of her men, disgusted. “She had to bring the fucking beast, didn’t she.” Behind her, several pairs of restless feet shuffle in the mud.

Sansa sympathizes, because the sight of dragons is rightly terrifying after all they’ve been through, but in truth she’s more amused than afraid. The long winter has not stamped out the Southern Queen’s flair for the dramatic, it seems.

Her own nerves have more to do with the politics of the occasion than the possibility of another field of fire. She has not seen Daenerys Targaryen since the end of the war, when she defeated the Others and flew south for the winter, leaving the frozen North to its own devices for what turned out to be a crushing three-year winter. That had been their pact: independence for the Northern Kingdoms, at the price of no food or shelter from the Southern crown during their time of direst need.

It was a high price, and the North paid it. If she wanted to, it would be entirely possible for Daenerys to ride north on her dragon’s neck and re-conquer the North, and bring the Riverlands and the Vale back into the fold along with it. It’s only hope that brings Sansa south to treat with her. Hope, and a little bit of faith.

Not faith in the gods, though they come to a sacred place for a sacred purpose. The Isle of Faces was where the Children of Earth and First Men made their pact of peace, and it is where the two Queens of Westeros will make theirs as well. The gritty politics will come later—trade negotiations and the drawing of exact borders and the like—but tonight they will swear peace surrounded by their lords and the faces of the gods, where no man has stepped since that first fateful pact. The symbolic power of it is the important part, not the gods themselves.

No, it is faith in the Dragon Queen herself that brings Sansa south, and the memory of their last encounters. She can only hope Daenerys remembers them as sweetly.

Drogon lands in a nearby field in a rush of wings and wind, and he is close enough that Sansa can see the silver-haired figure leaping from the great black neck and sliding to the ground.

Sansa has long honed the mask she wears for her lords, for her people, for her enemies. But she is glad she chose to stand in front of her men, because this sight of Daenerys is enough to crack her mask, leaving her emotions naked on her face. Or so it feels.

Her face is well schooled by the time Daenerys reaches them—the impossible woman is wearing breeches, though Sansa supposes it’s a natural fit for dragon-riding.

Every man and woman here understands the gravity of the occasion, but one mistake or offense could put an end to their plans of peace. They make the necessary introductions and trade many fine courtesies on the southern shore of the Gods Eye, but even as Sansa names her bannermen and their titles one by one, a polite drone, her attention is continually caught by Dany, who seems as bright as the sun itself.

Not once, but twice, Sansa catches the flicker of purple eyes toward her, the second time lingering, considering. Sansa is disconcerted by how she can’t quite tell what that look means. For many years Sansa has prided herself on seeing people and understanding them, but she doesn’t know what this look means. It renders her wrong-footed.

“It’s good to see you,” Daenerys murmurs in her ear when they finally greet each other, clasping her by the elbows, and Sansa doesn’t know what that means, either.

  
  


The journey across the water is quiet, almost silent, for the island itself seems ever more forbidding and severe as they draw nearer, and its bone-white trees and blood-red leaves make their slow rise to loom over them all.

That mood settles over all them, it seems, when they step foot ashore and make their way, boots crunching over the dead leaves, to the clearing. Vows before the old gods and the new are made with appropriate solemnity. There are no green men, not that Sansa can see; but who knows?

Then the moment comes that Sansa has been dreading and hoping for in her secret heart. The lords take their leave to sail back to shore. Sansa and Daenerys will sit vigil for the night by themselves, here, in a show of trust and dedication to their vows. They each have someone waiting by the shore of the island to row them back in the morning, but for now, they are alone together.

It’s impossible to hide behind ceremony or duty. Sansa remembers her words to Tyrion: _There are no devotions, no priests or songs or candles. Only trees, and silent prayer._

It was similarly impossible to hide on the last night they spent in each other’s company, when they both thought they might be dead come morning. But that was winter, and it is springtime now. It is not death Sansa is afraid of.

“Look.” Dany nods and presses a hand to Sansa’s own, where it rests on her lap. The snow has melted on the island, but the layer of humus on the ground is thick, and it takes a moment for Sansa to spot the white flowers. Many are still tightly closed buds, not yet ripe, but a few have reached full bloom. One is within reach, and before Sansa can help herself, she reaches out to brush a finger against the soft petals.

“They’re so fragile,” she murmurs, withdrawing from it in a sudden fear.

“Then they must be treated gently,” Dany says. But, contrary to her words, she leans forward and plucks one by the stem. “Not all of them,” she adds, a playful lilt to her voice. “What are flowers for, if not to adorn the heads of beautiful maidens?” Then she tucks the flower over Sansa’s ear, in her hair.

A flush rises to Sansa’s cheeks. “I’m no maiden,” she protests weakly, at a loss for anything else to say.

“Nor am I,” Dany replies, her eyes soft. Her fingers haven’t left the flower; now one brushes over the shell of Sansa’s ear and then her cheek. When Dany kisses her, she smells of dragon-smoke and lavender oil. It’s just as Sansa remembers, the scent flooding her nostrils in a powerful sense-memory. When her eyes slip closed, she can almost believe she is back within the walls of Winterfell, terrified and exhilarated. When she was young, she’d dreamed of the kisses of a perfect prince, but it was the soft, urgent kisses of a queen that had been everything the songs promised, and more. Sansa has wondered whether those kisses and caresses in her memories were truly as sweet as she remembers. She does not wonder anymore.

“This is foolish,” Sansa whispers as she pulls away. It’s more for herself than Dany, a reprimand for her own heart. But she rallies, once she realizes Dany is listening. “We could never . . .”

“We could never be lovers,” Dany agrees. “We have our own kingdoms, duties, worries, heirs to produce . . . and we’re rivals, no less. We knew it when we parted, and we know it now.”

“Then why . . . ?”

“This is a strange place, isn’t it?” Dany says, as though the thought follows from the last. “You can almost feel strange things in the air. Anything might happen . . . for a night.”

Sansa knows better than anyone how fleeting joy might be, how it ought to be seized with both hands while it is yet ripe. Still—

“To be forgotten on the morn?” Sansa suggests, and knows she has revealed too much of her hurt, of her heart. The old queen would have laughed and called her stupid.

Dany’s hand squeezes hers. “Not forgotten,” she promises, her voice low--“never forgotten.”

If any green men show themselves for the rest of the night, Sansa doesn't notice. But there's magic in this night nonetheless.


End file.
